The Weeping Angels
by Moon007
Summary: This is a one-shot behind the eyes of the Weeping Depending on how this story goes with readers I may write more on the Weeping Angels


Perhaps it is just us, moving silently through time. Frozen…alive…frozen…alive…. The process never ends. For a race so powerful, we are so incredibly lonely. The gloomy life we live…how often eyes fall upon us, watching, but yet all we can do is weep. Hands covered over our faces, rain streaming down the cold, hard stone, creating the tears we can never cry. Death is tricky, oh how immortality is said to taste so sweet, but some of us wish we could die, and years go by. Eventually we will, but how long until that day? The subject of pictures, looking innocent, like an angel, all over the world. But… what happens when the cameras go down? Arms outstretched with lightening speed, how could we miss?

If there is one thing we enjoy, is the hunt. Call it instinct, but when we are hungry, we feed. Energy… it's what keeps us alive. Without the energy to keep us moving we decay; our faces crack and crumble, but do we die? The hunger is excruciating; the pains in the pits of our stomachs are like nothing else. Although we are a lonely race, the hunt keeps us going, if not by our own will then by the will to keep that hunger from our stomachs. Our marble wings weigh heavily on our backs, but the feeling of taking the energy makes that weight lighter.

Our faces are ones of extreme desire, the hunger is unbearable, and perhaps one day we will all feel the hunger, but we try and stay as far away from it as we can. The wind and the rain, they will take their toll on our bodies, but stay strong and the hunger will not come.

That's enough of the hunger we suppose, but it's such a crucial thing to understand. Now we suppose it's the house we should mention. It is our domain, our home. A tall, two-story black structure with vines reaching up the dark wood. The vines are not even green, they are grey, much like ourselves. The house is filled with us, even on the outside we watch for the wanderers who dare to enter our fortress, all who come in, never go out.

The youth of the human race venture into the decaying house; we enjoy this. Their youth and vitality makes them perfect meals. Energy flows off of them in waves. If you could see a Weeping Angel's mouth water at anything, then this is it. We listen. We watch.

Two young men step into the entryway. One tosses his already tousled hair about his head. He has brown hair. His wide brown eyes scan the hardwood floors, the curling wallpaper, the staircase that leads into the unknown…. The abandoned feeling of the house. The other human male is doing the same, taking in the house from what he can see inch by inch. He shivers.

"Daniel, mate, I don't like the feel of this place." He shivers again. "Maybe this wasn't such a good idea… maybe it's best if we leave."

No.

"No, c'mon mate, let's take a look around, there is no one here." He spreads his arms out, indicating the whole house is devoid of any presence, but their own. He is wrong. We are here and we are watching.

He groans, but agrees. Success. "Alright. But not for long, this place gives me the creeps."

Their eyes dance around the house. Wall paper is curled back revealing chipped sheet rock. The staircase leads up. Up to our domain. The first one, Daniel, places a steady hand on the ball of the rail post. He swings his body around and with a smile on his face, begins to climb the creaky stair case. Confidence. Our stone hearts lift. We enjoy the taste of confidence.

His feet keep moving up the stairs. A little farther and he will be ours. A little farther and he is ours. The house will open, boundaries broken. Love the prey, respect the prey. Boundaries. This is what we do, but most humans don't respect or love us. We must correct.

Our attention moves away from our thoughts. We attack. Stone moving faster than light. Daniel screams. He sees the statues moving.

"RUN! The statues are moving! From place to place! I don't know how!" He calls down to the first boy.

"What?"

"It's the angels! They-" We caught him. He's gone now. 1969. We think that is long enough. He dies today. Do we kill the younger boy too? He is afraid. His eyes glance nervously up and down the hall. He sees us. Our hands covered over our faces, there are many of us here in this house.

He is carrying a backpack. Slipping it off his shoulder, he unzips it and pulls out a can of something. It has a black cap on the top. Quickly he unfurls a patch of wallpaper and sprays, _'Beware the weeping angel.'_ He dashes out of the room, but we have made our decision.

He runs to the door and we greet him with a simple touch. Goodbye, child.

**Hi! My name is Moon, and I am the author of this one-shot. I know it is short, but I want to see where this goes and if I want to write another on the Weeping Angels. I love reviews! **

**-Moon**


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